含光君

The first time Lan Wangji wrote a song, it poured out of him, an ewer overturned. He was fifteen and half-convinced he was going mad. It seemed as if he had lost all control over his own mind -- as if every thought would find its slippery and insidious way back to Wei Ying's smile, Wei Ying's ponytail, Wei Ying's laugh. He couldn't tame those thoughts, but he could direct them. He would write that song differently now, perhaps, with more sophistication and restraint, but he loves it as it is. The love song of Lan Zhan and Wei Ying, as Wei Ying once suggested.

This time, he has given himself months. Months of quietly reworking the melody, sitting with his qin and recalling the then-unfamiliar songs that poured out of the record player at the wedding dance. That night is like a shining jewel in his memory, one of the times he has felt the happiest not only here at the mansion, but anywhere. Shortly following his visit with Lan Xichen, he had longed for home with an acute yearning that felt like a blade to the ribs. The dance eased it. He was happy. He felt like a part of something in a way that was a shocking novelty to him. Wei Ying was beautiful, the grooms were happy, and Claudius was pleased with himself. It seemed to solidify the way he had instinctively called the mansion home only a month ago, surprising himself with it.

He sits now in a parlor near the welcome table, one he often occupies when he is willing to entertain the occasional visitor. His qin, gleaming black and seven-stringed, sits across his tidily-crossed legs. Having at last decided himself satisfied with his composition, he is playing it, the qin's quiet, commanding voice a reasonable match for his own. In some respects, it may sound familiar. Portions of the melody are like that of the Song of Clarity, or of that very song he wrote for Wei Ying, if perhaps more complex with the heightening of his skill in the intervening years. In other respects, it may sound differently familiar. A wide array of influences are audible, from some of the more restrained waltzes that played on that record player to ABBA to "Kiss From A Rose." The qin can only be a soft and undemanding instrument, one that compels attention by its beauty rather than its volume, but if anyone happens to stop to listen, he is in a relaxed and, frankly, sentimental mood.

It is clear enough that, indeed, something truly is toying with the people of this mansion. Lan Wangji cannot begin to guess at its motive. His visit with his brother brought him melancholy happiness; his meeting with Queen Gertrude brought him quiet, wrenching joy; the disastrous encounter with Jiang Wanyin brought him cold fury sharper than Bichen's edge, and crumpled Wei Ying's typically-unassailable resolve. What is the purpose of any of that? Is Wei Ying not allowed his peace after years of tumult and even more years of death? Lan Wangji still cannot regret his choice to stay, but he finds himself burdened more heavily with thoughts on the nature of this tiny world.

The visitors, such as they were, have dispersed. Lan Wangji did not meet all of them, but he caught wind of most, he believes. He will write to Lan Xichen later, but with Jiang Wanyin mercifully gone, there is nothing left that can be solved with Bichen's qi or Wangji's strings. He stayed for several reasons, many of them living under this roof right now. Their pains, their losses, their grief -- all of it matters.

Expressing care does not come naturally to him. Learning to be gentle was the work of many years. His mother was kind in a way that must have masked hidden ferocity, and then she died. He never knew his father, although only a single wall, two at most, separated them most days. His uncle loves him, but to describe Lan Qiren as gentle would be laughable. Lan Xichen's temperament is a marvel with all of that considered. Lan Wangji is thinking of his brother, and of Wei Ying's shijie and her lotus root and pork rib soup, as he sets to work in the kitchen this afternoon. Most of the time, he does this particular task in a tucked-away kitchen, stocked with all of the implements and ingredients of his liking, but he knows that this one sees a much greater volume of traffic. His own temperament prevents him from intruding on those whose wellbeing drives his concern, but he can hope that luck will be on his side.¹

All that is to say, Lan Wangji is cooking. His sleeves are bound up with strips of blue silk and his hair, along with the ends of his forehead ribbon, is braided neatly, courtesy of a sleepy-eyed but quick-fingered Wei Ying. A pot of seaweed and egg drop soup simmers on one burner; the other, not yet alight, houses a sizeable pan that awaits slices of pork, chilies, and tea tree mushrooms. The mushrooms in question are soaking and Lan Wangji is occupied at present with neatly mincing several cloves of garlic.

¹Despite that he was betrayed by the promises of the burn book and that Jiang Wanyin's luck appeared only as poor as it usually is.

[ This post can be a bit time-flexible and will remain open for the foreseeable future! Lan Wangji cooks for Wei Wuxian almost every day anyway, he's just moving his base of operations and cooking in larger quantities right now, so stop by anytime. ]

On the whole, Lan Wangji has found peace at the mansion. There are parts of his life that are missing; his disciples and their laughter, the waterfalls and natural beauty of the Cloud Recesses, the clarity of purpose of night-hunting. He worries for his brother and hopes that no one has wrested him too early from his seclusion. He dreads, a little, privately, the explanation he will need to give his uncle upon their return.

And yet: he does trust his students. They are capable and clever, even Lan Jingyi, although you wouldn't know it to read the boy's schoolwork. Wei Ying trusts Wen Qionglin, and Lan Wangji trusts Wei Ying. And yet: Wei Ying is here. Wei Ying is here, and there is nothing that could matter more than awakening to his bed-warm limbs and his hair spreading like spilled ink across Lan Wangji's chest where his head is pillowed.

Wei Ying is, and has been, buried in his talismans. Lan Wangji has fed him, brought him tea, and tempted him into bed once already today. Now he has deigned to give his husband space, and has found his way to the library. Improbably, there are some texts here that he recognizes, tomes of musical cultivation he was wholly certain were found only in the Cloud Recesses library.

As such, he can be found perusing that particular section. Little of this is new to him, but there's a kind of nostalgia to reading over the foundational texts of his own cultivation practice. It reminds him of home.